Page 38 of The Sound of Seduction
Something had changed when his eyes met hers. She was sure of it. They had shared… something. A moment beyond words, one that sent ripples through her, deep even now. Even in silence, it was an acknowledgment, like a confession—one neither of them had spoken aloud. Yet she knew, with a certainty that made her cheeks warm, that it was there all the same.
Wendy paused by the staircase, gripping the banister to steady herself. Could it be possible? Had Stan felt the same pull,the same raw connection that she had? Unspoken though it was, it left her shaken. She bit her lip, struggling to chase away the nervous trail her thoughts were beginning to take.
She had crossed a line tonight. And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want to cross back. Not now. Not when her heart beat in time with his. Not when she’d witnessed what nearly losing him felt like.
For now, she allowed herself a shred of hope, like a spark held carefully in her hands. Perhaps, just perhaps, she wasn’t alone in how she felt. But that thought would wait until morning.
With a quiet breath, she began her slow descent, her body craving the rest her heart would not yet grant her.
Chapter Eighteen
Morning light slippedthrough the parted curtains, warming the deep amber hues of the polished wood. Yet Stan still winced, his shoulder throbbing as his gaze lingered on the bowl of fresh water glinting on the side table. Andre had already made his final checks, his calm yet satisfied expression declaring to anyone who might care that the fever had, at last, broken and Stan was on the way to betterment.
Then why didn’t that heaviness in his chest lift?
Stan adjusted himself carefully against the pillows, his body still sore and his shoulder throbbing faintly under its fresh bandage. He was raw—both physically and in some unspoken way he couldn’t quite explain—but alive. That counted for something.
The creak of the door drew his attention, and when he lifted his gaze, Wendy was there. She hesitated as if she weren’t certain she should enter, her fingers wound tightly around the edge of the doorframe.
He took her in, the dark shadows under her eyes painting a picture of how her night had been—worn down, worried beyond reason, but undeniably lovely. She seemed to glow even through her exhaustion, and the sight stirred something deep in his chest that had little to do with his injuries.
“It’s only seven in the morning,” he said rough from disuse but warm with curiosity. He tried for a half smile; it hurt a little less than he expected.
She nodded, stepping further into the room, and her soft-soled shoes barely made a sound as she crossed the space. “I was—” Her words faltered, and she exhaled quietly before starting again. “I was waiting for Andre’s report… Needless to say, we’re relieved.”
“Relieved,” he murmured, letting the word stretch lazily from his tongue. His gaze searched hers. “Is that all?”
Her faint laugh fluttered in the room, and she lowered her eyes. She blushed so easily.
“What happened last night?” he asked after another moment, his tone turning serious. “Andre didn’t say much, and I remember nothing… yet, I think I owe you my life.”
Her eyes darted to his, startled at his abrupt sincerity. “You shouldn’t speak like this, Your Royal Highness,” she fumbled for words before gathering her thoughts. “You were feverish. We didn’t think you’d wake. But I…” Her cheeks pinked again, and she tightened her hands in front of her. “I did what I could.”
What. She. Could.
Stan’s throat tightened, and he lowered his gaze briefly to take in her small, weary frame. “Then it seems I owe you more than I can say,” he murmured, tipping his head slightly.
She waved his gratitude off, looking embarrassed. “I only followed orders. You would have done the same for anyone in need of care.”
“Perhaps,” he replied, his voice dropping slyly to a murmur, “but I doubt I would have looked so radiant doing it.”
She froze, unsure how to respond, but his grin deepened. It was fun, seeing her flustered like that—a delightful distraction from the ache in his shoulder.
“Can I get you anything, Your Royal Highness?” she asked suddenly, as if working around his teasing to find solid ground again.
“Just Stan, please. I owe you everything and hate the distance of formalities between us.” He pushed himself carefully upward, propping himself higher on the pillows. The movement was slow but deliberate. “I only need to sit up,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward her as pain flickered through his arm.
“Yes, of course—here,” she replied, rushing forward to help. Her hands came gently under his arm, and she stepped closer, leaning in to steady him. He stopped mid-motion. It was only then that he noticed.
No shirt.
His stomach tightened faintly in shock—or was it something else entirely? He glanced down at his bare chest, his bandaged shoulder, and felt the faintest flush rise beneath the scruff on his jaw. Then his eyes darted up to catch hers, just as quick.
“And where, pray tell, might my clothes have gone?” His smile curved lazily now, a fox’s grin despite the moment’s heaviness.
Her reaction was immediate and delicious. Her eyes widened just a fraction, cheeks blooming with crimson as she stepped back reflexively, her hand suddenly hesitant where it had supported him. “I—I had to cut it. It was—it was in the way, and we had to act quickly,” she stammered, clearly mortified.
“Did you now?” His mouth lifted further, and there was no denying the amusement gleaming in his eyes.
